Lily White Lies

One





...His strong jaw and chiseled features were as eye appealing as his well-formed body, which was evident, even under his white oxford shirt...





I wasn’t in the mood when he slid his hand up my nightie but I was even less in the mood to argue. I could convince myself to tolerate the ten minutes of faking interest and pleasure. It was the two or three minutes afterward, several minutes of what seemed an eternity that I found almost intolerable, as I waited for him to roll off me.

Those few minutes evoked an emotion I couldn’t understand, much less label. Wavering between disgust and surrender, it was the most pervasive feeling of despair. It reminded me of late Uncle Maury and the mole on his left cheek. Looking back, I don’t think the mole bothered me as much as the one, wiry, black hair that protruded from its spongy core. The urge to rip it out mixed with the urge to throw up—knowing I could do neither. Each time he’d say, ‘Come here and give your uncle a kiss’, I would close my eyes in defeat and obediently do as I’d been asked, my stomach turning in time with the heartbeat that pounded in my throat.

Now, I lay underneath two-hundred-pounds of sweaty flesh, struggling with those same feelings, the ones I had closed my eyes to hide twenty years ago. The spoken, ‘I love you,’ that I once used to conclude our lovemaking was now replaced with the unspoken, ‘Get off me!’

“Damn baby, that was good.” His words came with exertion.

Not the least bit interested whether his remark was an observation or a compliment, I replied, “How about letting me up.”

As if he didn’t realize he was still lying on top of me, he mumbled something I didn’t catch and rolled toward his left, pinning my hair between his arm and the mattress.

Wincing, I grabbed it to keep it from pulling tighter as he slid further away from me. He made a half notion to look in my direction.

“Sorry baby, I didn’t mean to pull your hair. Maybe you should think about getting it cut. I mean... it would be a lot easier to take care of.” He added, “It’d probably be kind of cute on you, too.”

“No!” Mentally drained as I was, I could only offer a one-word challenge.

“Hey, it was just a thought.”

Smooth as silk, a deep shade of brown bordering on black, a color my grandmother called molasses, I always saw my hair as my one and only pretty feature. Without it, I probably would have drowned in my own insecurities as a teenager, when everyone else seemed to be more popular than I was and have more dates than I did.

My legs felt like tree trunks as I swung them over the side of the bed.

“Would you bring me a glass of water on your way back?”

A nod was all I could muster.

We weren’t married yet, but somehow we had already fallen into married life re-runs. After work, it was dinner and clean up, sitcoms for me, paperwork for him and then bed. Except for the occasional social engagement on a weekend, our routine never varied.

Lately, even sex had become routine—something he expected every night. It didn’t seem fair. The pre-wedding jitters that made me nervous, made him horny. I planned all the arrangements while he did what he would normally do. Then, at the end of the day, when I felt fatigued and stressed, he wanted to play. If the weeks leading up to the wedding were going to be like this, he wouldn’t have the need for a honeymoon and I wouldn’t have the energy.

I took more time than usual to brush my teeth. Somehow, in the middle of this daily act, I could find the peace lacking from my everyday routine. In these few moments, my thoughts belonged to me. My time belonged to me. The demands on my life didn’t exist within the tiled walls of a room that had become my sanctuary. I had never before realized how calming the simple act of brushing my teeth could be.

With a glass of water in my hand, I sat on the edge of the bed and gave Brian a nudge. “Here’s your water.”

I waited for a response—as I did every night—then exhaled one, long breathe and placed the glass on the nightstand, muttering, “Goodnight to you, too,” as I slid between the sheets.



It seemed as if only seconds had passed but I knew better. I ignored the blaring alarm and the thud of feet hitting heavily on the floor. My eyes fluttered open when the toilet seat cracked against the tank. But, when the off-key singing rolled out of the bathroom with the steam, I got out of bed to keep from screaming. I poked my head through the open bathroom door.

“You’re not going to the office today… are you?”

“What’s that, babe?”

Clearing my throat to carry my voice above the beating water, I yelled, “I asked if you were going to work today. It’s Saturday.”